Words in a prayer, little hairs in the white
of morning. Quiet birds that hardly fly
are populating trees, clouds continent
the sphere of heaven. Just this whirling prayer
about her, like the way the Sun and stars
revolve as a big system. I begin
to see it now: her there, the cat's wet fur
and vivid purr. My fingers move the muscles
of her legs, I worship when I feel
her skin, I sing my feeling when I pray
inside her like a church. Heresiarchs
and charlatans, the Botticelli thighs
in handfuls, pure beloved nonthought
through union with her visceral body.
No comments:
Post a Comment